


Want a Whole Lotta Love

by musiclily88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cursed Object, Harry is an Auror, M/M, Quarantine, This is very niche, draco is a researcher of cursed objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:15:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26156380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musiclily88/pseuds/musiclily88
Summary: Cursed objects and quarantine
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. 1 Bad Guy

**Author's Note:**

> My friend challenged me to write about Harry/Draco during quarantine.  
> This is the result.

“What’d you bring me this time?” Draco asks on a sigh, holding out his hand.

“Not the troll bogeys you deserve.” Harry smiles, eyes falling shut as he laughs to himself. “Ah, ah,” he adds as Draco darts forwards to grab the object from him, opening his eyes and frowning. “That’s not fair play.”

“Since when do we ever have fair play?”

Harry moves his arms behind his back. “This week it’s my turn to be unfair.”

“I hate you.”

“I said this is _my week_ to be unfair.”

Draco sighs again, putting two fingers to his temple. He holds out his other hand, palm-up. “Fine.”

“Here you go!” Harry feints, not quite Wronsky-style, three times before eventually relenting to give Draco the stone in his hand.

“Oh.” Draco immediately backs away from Harry, eyes going wide.

“Oh?”

“Oh, this is _not_ good.”

:

“Right.” Harry and Draco are both looking through the fireplace attached to Malfoy’s flat, each nursing a cup of tea and a firewhiskey, one in each hand. They’re talking to Auror Hardgrave, and it’s about to be an ironic name in about fifty seconds. “So, you both need to quarantine. Starting now.”

“Excuse me?” Harry asks, furrowing his brows.

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Draco sets down his tea before taking a huge swig of his firewhiskey.

“Together.”

 _“What?”_ they both exclaim next. Harry nearly drops his teacup. He eventually manages to wordlessly levitate it to a side table with a flick of his finger.

“We—we can’t have you contaminating anyone.”

“You’re not my boss, though,” Draco wheedles, shooting both Hardgrave and Harry dirty looks.

“Residue and smudges could contaminate the Floo, we don’t know how safe it is to Apparate or fly, and walking like a Muggle is surely out of the question.”

“Surely,” Draco and Harry say in unison, rolling their eyes.

“It’s the only thing to be done.”

:

They’re both silent for a moment after the fire-call ends. “This is gonna suck.”

“Language.”

Harry snorts. “Death Eater.”

“I will get into a common Muggle brawl with you, mark my words.”

“Consider them marked.” Harry snorts again.

“What?”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“I reckon I won’t.”

“Darkly marked.”

“Merlin, I hate you.”

“Duly noted?”

“Better.” Draco sighs, standing up from his leather armchair. “Might as well show you where you’re to sleep if you can’t go anywhere else.”

“I could escape if I wanted to.”

“Oh, you have the Vanishing Cabinet, then, do you?”

“Pretty sure that was your territory, actually.” Harry raises a brow as he gets up from the settee.

Draco rounds on him. “Are we going to be at each other’s throats for the entirety of these two weeks?”

Harry’s gaze darts down quickly to Draco’s throat, then to his lips, that sharply away. After a moment, he squares his shoulders. “No. No. Sorry.”

“Sure. Anyhow, it’s this way.” Draco leaves the room without entirely waiting for Harry to follow him, which is pretty typical as far as their interactions go, and not nearly as offensive as many other things he’s done just today.

“You gonna lend me your Nan’s comforter?” Harry asks, still carrying his firewhiskey glass as he follows Draco.

“We burned them,” Draco says dully as he begins to ascend the stairs.

“You—” Harry begins, before he’s interrupted.

“It’s why I do this.”

“Lead your sworn enemy upstairs into your weirdly impressive flat under general duress?”

“Examine cursed objects, you complete imbecile.”

Harry stops dead-still, and it’s not until Draco’s at the top of the staircase that he can begin moving again. “Your nan was cursed?”

“May as well have been.”

“Thought that was an only-my-family thing,” Harry muses, finally rounding the landing to follow Draco.

“You’re not that special, Potter.”

“Um, excuse me. I’m the Chosen One.”

Draco rounds on him, finger pointed out in judgment. “Don’t cross me. I am fully capable of ending you.”

Harry shrugs. “Worse men and women have tried.” He smiles. “You don’t scare me.”

“Seems like nothing scares you.”

“Just show me to my room and tell me about this cursed shite,” he says with a scowl.

“Language.”

“Like you actually care.” 

Draco waves a hand to the left, indicating an open door. “It’s all yours.”

“Cheers.”

“Don’t suppose you actually have anything to wear besides that ridiculous outfit, or that you’ve brought any sundry items?”

“I wasn’t expecting a multi-week sleepover when Hardgrave told me to pick up cursed object, so, no.” Harry bites at his bottom lip. “And I never learned how to do that Hermione thing of making bags and pockets bigger to hold necessities.”

“She always was smarter than you.”

“That’s not an insult, in case you thought it was. I know what I know.” He pauses at the threshold of the bedroom. “Having said that, even she wouldn’t have brought pyjamas on a mission.” He smiles, wordlessly turning down the duvet.

“Are you implying that you need pyjamas?”

“I’d prefer them, to be sure.”

“Merlin, you’re needy.”

“Yeah.” Harry shrugs. “It’s kind of what happens when we kids get abused, you know?”

Draco sucks at his bottom lip. “Wish I didn’t.”

“Fuck off, then.”

“Can’t. Suppose you’re stuck with me.”

“Suppose I am.”

:

After Harry has unpacked his nothing-at-all, which accounts to Draco bringing him things as vaguely requested, they begin to discuss the stone.

“It kills people.”

“I’ve gathered.”

“Or—well, it can.”

“What does that mean?”

“There’s, like, a predisposition to it for some people.”

“Again, what does that mean?”

“I think it’s related to weakened immune systems.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“It’s unprecedented!”

“Then how did you recognize it?”

“Because I’m good at what I do!”

“Then what’s it called?”

Draco sighs. “Nine of Crowns. And no, I didn’t name it.”

“Is this how we die?”

“I can only hope so.”

:

Sometimes they’re both making light of it all, especially while they read into magi-viruses.

Making light.

Apparently that’s how they handle certain things, sending temperature-check charms randomly across the room and levitating cups of tea such as they knock into one another’s temples painfully.

“Okay, you’re giving me a bruise,” Harry says on the second evening of quarantine, batting at the teacup as it bumps into his head. “I’m genuinely getting a bruise.”

“Sure it’s not a hickey?”

Harry scoffs, looking up from his book. “I’ve been living with you in lockdown for days. If I had a hickey, it would be from you. Plus, I’m single, and plus-plus, who gets a hickey on their temple?”

“Wait, you want a hickey from me?”

Harry throws up a hand. “How is it that you always consider _me_ the idiotic one?”

Draco’s cheeks flush. “I asked you a question.”

“I’ve lost the plot.”

“Classic.”

“So, you do you or you don’t want a hickey?”

“My skin is basically porcelain, and I bruise like a peach. No thank you.”

“Such manners.”

“As it turns out, I was well brought-up. Manner-born, as it were.” Draco coughs and his face immediately goes ashen. “Uh. We should talk about the _other_ side-effects and symptoms.”

“Other side effects?”

“Coughing is one of them.”

“If I die here, I am absolutely haunting you.”

Draco leers, his cheeks pinking back up a little. “Have fun with that.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Neither would I.”

“So what do we do?”

“Find a cure, you dumb arse.”

:

“Um.”

“What,” Harry asks, voice low as he’s splayed out face-down on the bed.

“Fever is the key symptom.”

“You think?” He flips quickly, knocking off the sheet that was barely covering him. “I can’t stop sweating, and I can’t stop shivering, and everything is annoying.”

“Sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” Draco leans forward, putting one hand on the foot of the bed.

“No, you’re not.”

“Don’t tell me what I am!”

“You don’t even have any symptoms.”

“Fatigue. Shortness of breath.”

Harry snorts, coughing once. “Just having a panic attack about me being in your flat, that’s all.”

“No, that’s—that’s not fair.”

“It’s my week to be unfair.”

“Fine. You’re clearly the expert on these things, after all.”

“Whatever.”

“Look, I know you’re stuck here and that you hate me, but you’re being a baby. So get the hell over it and act like the grown-up you’ve always pretended to be.”

“Fine!” Harry yells as Draco storms out of the room. “But my week to be unfair isn’t up for another day!”

:

“It’s my week to be unfair now!” Draco calls loudly.

“Merlin and Christ, why does this thing take two weeks to fully present itself?” Harry asks as he rounds his way into the kitchen.

“Because the world is cruel and unforgiving. How are you not aware of this?”

“Fair point.” He sits down heavily. “May I at least request toast and tea?”

Draco flicks two fingers and the prepared tea and toast float their way to the table in front of Harry.

“Wait, you had that prepared?”

“I said it’s my week to be unfair, not that it’s my week to be a monster.”

“I never said—”

“I don’t care.” Draco sits across from Harry at the table. “Also, I heard you get up, and at this rate, I know your breakfast preferences. The less conversation about it, the easier.”

“Because that’s _totally_ your style. Less conversation.”

“Shut up.”

“Fine. What would you like to be unfair about this week, then?”

“Unclear. Just—noting that it’s my turn for the high ground.”

“Noted. You’re more than welcome to it.”

“Coming from the person staying in my flat for two weeks, how gracious.”

“This whole thing was your fault! Don’t act like you’re doing me any favours or anything!”

Draco slams a hand down. “You brought it into my home, this isn’t my fault! And besides, it was legally mandated!”

“Since when do you care about laws and mandates?” Harry yells so loudly that he spits a little bit.

“Since when do _you?”_

“Maybe I don’t!”

“Maybe I don’t either!”

“Maybe I’ll leave, then!”

Draco balks, going silent for a moment. “Please don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t leave. Please.”

“Wait, what?”

“Please don’t leave.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

“Good.” Draco stands up and rounds the table, stance purposeful. “I’m going to kiss you right now.”

“Like, immediately?”

“If you’d shut up, yeah.” Draco immediately cups Harry’s jaw and draws him in, gently pressing their lips together.

They move away for a moment, each taking a breath.

“This—this will make the rest of these weeks really, really interesting.”

“I bet money you’ll move in four days from now,” Draco says as he licks down Harry’s jaw.


	2. Man After Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quarantine and conundrums

“I’ve changed my mind,” Draco groans, swiping one hand across his forehead. He’s reclined against his pillow like a Victorian orphan recently bedridden with consumption, which he is doing his best to communicate nonverbally. “You’re not ever allowed to move in with me.”

“What?” Harry asks vaguely, handing Draco a glass of cold water and a cup of tea from where he’s perched on the side of the bed. They’re uncomfortably close, and Draco can feel the body heat rising from Harry’s leg. It makes him feeling undignified and itchy.

“Two weeks will have been enough. I blame you for this fever.”

Harry snorts. “Blame me for getting you hot, do you?” He bumps the teacup against Draco’s closed lips, brows furrowing.

Draco shakes his head furiously. “Blame you for everything.”

“Poetic.” Harry snorts, shaking his head. “You look like a Victorian orphan on her deathbed.”

“I feel like a Victorian orphan, you berk!”

“Harsh words, et cetera, et al, perpetuity, all the rest.”

Draco sighs. “I’m still baffled that Hermione’s friends with you.”

“You and me both,” Harry replies, slapping a compress onto Draco’s forehead. “Here. Enjoy.”

“I was nicer to you when you went through this.”

“No. You weren’t.”

“No. I wasn’t.” Draco sighs again.

“Because you’re not a nice person.”

“Nor are you.”

Harry nods slowly. “I know.”

“Oh?”

“No one else seems to understand that.”

“I’ve always thought you were an abusive knob.”

Harry snorts. “And in that, you are correct.”

“Oh?”

“And only that. The rest is complete shite.”

“Says you.”

“Whatever. Go swoon now, okay? I need my own cup of tea.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Draco calls as Harry leaves the room.

“I’ll do what I like!”

_“Clearly.”_

:

“Will you please kill me?”

“I’ve certainly considered it,” Harry says with a big smile. He sets a cup of tea down on the bedside table along with some toast.

Draco considers the cup. “Arsenic-laced?”

“Close. Whisky.”

Draco brightens, just a bit. “The good stuff?”

“Whatever weird peaty stuff you have, yes.”

“Thanks.” Draco gives him a small smile in return, picking up the cup.

“Whatever.” Harry crosses his arms. “I’m just doing it so you’ll stop whining.”

“Liar.”

“Clearly.”

“The tea leaves would tell me, anyhow, you know. I’m very good at reading them.”

“Funny. I didn’t know you could read.”

“Fuck off.”

“Eat your toast.”

“I’ll do what I want!”

_“Clearly.”_

:

When Draco wakes up next, Harry is curled against him like a cat, his face burrowed into Draco’s shoulder. It’s not like Draco will ever tell him he finds it adorable, not by half, but he does smooth back Harry’s fringe, swiping gently at the sweat on his forehead.

“Merlin, but I hate you,” he whispers.

Harry nuzzles in further, smiling in his presumed sleep. “Love you too.” He tightens his grip around Draco’s waist. “Go back to sleep, now.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Never.” Harry, eyes still closed, licks a long stripe against Draco’s neck.

Draco squawks, nearly falling off the bed. It’s only Harry’s grip around his waist that keeps him safe. “Don’t be vile.”

“As you noted, I’ll do precisely what I like and nothing else.”

“What—I mean to say. What brought you to me, then?”

Harry finally opens his eyes. “Besides work, you mean?”

“I mean.”

“You have a very kissable and yet also punchable face.” He traces along Draco’s jawline.

“As Hermione can attest to.”

“Your interpretation of that situation is completely different than hers,” Harry says, gently slapping Draco’s cheek. “She said it was a mere slap.”

“Muggle brawling.”

“She’s Muggle-born. Also, I trust her more than I trust you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No. I don’t.”

They fall back into silence, and eventually Draco drifts off, unsure if Harry is asleep or not.

:

“I do love you, you know,” Draco says a day later, upon delivery of more tea and toast.

“Oh, I know.”

Draco flips to one side, petulantly drawing the covers over his head. “How did you know before I knew?”

“I’m very bright. Were you not aware of that? I’m the Chosen One, after all.”

“You barely passed any classes!”

“That’s just because I was lazy. Also, Snape had it out for me.”

Draco pulls a face, flipping back towards Harry. “Yeah, he totally hated your dad.”

“He was in love with my mum, too, don’t forget.”

“How could I?” Draco asks, groaning. “Thanks for the tea.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry sits down on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling? Really.”

“Bit crap, but better.” Again, Draco can feel his body heat against his leg. “Are you allowed to kiss me again?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

:

“So,” Draco drawls another day later, lying prone on the sofa with a book upon his chest. “I—I think I found a cure.”

“What?” Harry asks, distracted by cleaning off his glasses.

“I’ve been reading.”

“Again, it was undetermined whether or not you actually know how to read.” Harry frowns, looking up after replacing his glasses. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“I think I found a cure.”

“Okay. And that means what?”

“We have to get inoculated, but then you can—move out, or whatever.”

“Invitation rescinded, then? I see.”

Draco levers himself up on one arm. “You never even wanted—”

“You don’t know what I wanted! You never even asked me, you just sniped and fucking kissed me, and what am I supposed to do with that?”

Draco tosses the book to the floor, sighing. “Move in with me.”

“What?”

“For real.”

Harry swipes at his eyes, dislodging his glasses again. “I—I was so worried I’d killed you.” He sniffs quietly. “I was—am—so worried about killing you.”

“I’m all right. It was an accident.” He throws one arm up into the air dismissively.

“It was an accident last time, too, you recall.”

“We make mistakes.”

“I can’t afford to make mistakes!”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so self-indulgent. It’s unbecoming.”

Harry sniffs again, righting his glasses. “Never that.”

“So. What do you say?” Draco stands, picking up his book and turning to face Harry properly.

“I say we get married so you can make an honest man out of me.”

“You’ve never been honest a day in your life.”

“This is true. Also, your flat is much nicer than mine, so it’s really just a property thing.”

Draco kneels down, dressing gown pooling around his legs. “You’re richer than God, but let’s ignore that. And yes, I’ll marry you.”

Harry tips forward, hugging Draco fiercely.

:

Luna, Neville, Ron, Pansy, Blaise, and Hermione are the People of Honour. They marry in autumn, and Ron gets sloppy-drunk during the reception, but then—so does Harry. Hermione and Draco look on indulgently, Hermione heavily pregnant and Draco sipping slowly on champagne. At one point, Blaise tries to give Pansy a lap-dance as Luna and Neville cheer him on.

All is well.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: musiclily


End file.
